


More Equal than Others

by GalaxyGazing



Category: Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Child Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-18
Updated: 2013-01-18
Packaged: 2017-11-25 22:52:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/643814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalaxyGazing/pseuds/GalaxyGazing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faramir knows their father will always favor Boromir, unconditionally. Boromir wants Faramir to know that he is loved, if not by their father, then by him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Equal than Others

If Denethor desired to keep the fact that he had a favorite son a secret, he did not hide it well. Too often was Boromir given a gift, a compliment, a good amount of praise that Faramir was not—and _quite_ often was it done in front of the younger.

Every action that could be taken to match his brother’s skill, Faramir had done; every training exercise, test of strength, and exemplification of battle protocol knowledge. He excelled at each and, yet, his father always viewed him as second best, no more than a back-up son should ill befall Boromir.

Still, despite an insatiable father and an ever-gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach for unrequited respect, Faramir could not bring himself to hate his older brother. This was largely due to the fact Boromir adored him. He looked after his younger sibling, cared for him, and was his only source of affection. Faramir looked up to him in return, always knowing he was in the presence of greatness since their father thought so highly of him.

But for all the love that Boromir could give, the absence of love on Denethor’s part served to counter that.

In truth, Faramir could abide most things. Every backhanded insult, lack of recognition, and general feeling of neglect he took with stride. These were things that he was used to because such was the way things had always been. The craving for parental approval never dwindled, but as the years hardened him, Faramir had learned how to let the discomfort of it all roll off of his back.

But one day, mid-July, during Faramir’s seventeenth year his wall of tolerance weathered its first crack. The younger son had just completed a particular training exercise that Boromir had similarly completed when he had been the same age. However, this day, he had outdone his brother’s record by doing it in less time and with more precision and accuracy. Faramir was Boromir’s equal in near every matter, but to be slightly better at something, just once, revealed a new surge of confidence that he’d never experienced before.

When the news was relayed to Denethor, Boromir was present, standing next to his younger sibling and beaming with pride for him. With a smile, he encouraged him to tell their father, for even when Faramir came bearing good news, he was always stiff and reserved. Reluctantly, Faramir announced,

“Father, I have completed the westward invasion exercise. My time was twenty and six minutes.”

“And Boromir, what was your time?” Denethor asked. The question was expected.

“Thirty and two minutes, Father,” Boromir admitted, shamelessly.

The Steward of Gondor shifted in his chair, eyes dark with displeasure but mostly emptiness. Silence held the hall in a relentless grip for a miniature eternity before the old man grumbled,

“Well then. We know now, to be done _properly_ , a prevention of a westward attack will take no less than thirty and two minutes.”

Faramir could endure much, but today the dam splintered and he left the room without regard for grace of stoicism. Faramir turned on his heel and ran out of the hall, boots loud on the tile. It wasn’t the current circumstance that made him run, it was seventeen years of accumulated circumstances, all aiding his flight and giving him speed. Boromir lingered just long enough to catch his father’s eye. The older son’s brow furrowed but the Steward’s gaze remained unwavering.

Boromir chased the echoes to the hollow armory where he caught his sibling’s hand. When Faramir turned to face him his eyes were glossy and that startled them both. Faramir had never before allowed himself to cry in front of anyone, ever. When Boromir saw the wetness there, he mentally chided himself for being so ignorant. This wasn’t about the exercise. It had never been about any of the little things. Of course Faramir was hurting; he had been hurting for a long time.

Foreheads pressed together when Boromir took his brother’s face between his hands,

"Hey, hey, hey, hey, no, shh, easy,” He whispered quickly and softly.

Faramir gasped a high pitched sound, a last struggle not to cry.

“Easy, easy, easy, you’re okay, you’re okay,” Boromir could feel Faramir drifting to a place he could not reach him, recoiling into himself, shutting off from the world. The older held his brother tightly to keep him grounded to _this_ world, where he could still help him.

Faramir released a painful hiccup of restrained voice, sinking to the cold tile of the floor where Boromir followed, never letting go of him.

“You preformed wonderfully today. It was not fair of father to say that to you.”

But words were not helping because words were what had caused all of this. All Faramir needed now was a shoulder. Boromir thumbed away the first tear that started to roll and moved Faramir’s head to the crook of his neck where he could cradle him. To his surprise and relief, no struggle was made and Faramir allowed himself to he held, bringing his own arms up to half-heartedly touch Boromir’s back.

Faramir was quiet for a long time and Boromir held him until the trembling stopped.

\----

When they were younger, Boromir would train with Faramir. Most of the time they’d end up throwing their swords down and play-tackling each other for the younger was happy just to be seen and noticed. Other times they would enjoy the other’s presence when Faramir would read to Boromir on rainy days, but nothing brought them quite as close as that day in the armory had.

The next time Denethor unfairly distributed his affections, Boromir was keen to notice and Faramir knew who to turn to for consolation when they were alone.

Negligence was comforted with embraces, insults were soothed by fingers running through tangled hair, and anything worse was always ailed by both brothers climbing into the same bed as not to sleep alone. Their bond was woven so tightly that even when their father plucked at the threads, their brotherhood could mend it.

Now that Boromir was aware of how differently their father treated them, he lamented for it. He tried his best to praise his brother in his father’s company or purposefully mess up assignments that did not endanger Gondor, but to no avail. By this point, Faramir had accepted the way things would always be and, though it hurt no less, there was a bittersweet comfort that came from understanding reality.

For two years there was no cause for Faramir to flee the halls, but when Denethor became passionate about something one evening and Faramir offered to help, the Steward’s hand collided with his jaw,

“What could _you_ possibly do? If I need help from a son I’ll ask Boromir!”

“Father!” Boromir’s voice was a furious roar as he moved to help his brother, but his father’s blazing eyes dared him to take another step. His heart died for Faramir; all he could see was that seventeen year old boy, hear the frantic footsteps, and feel the two year old tears stain through his shirt in the armory.

But Faramir merely stood up straight. He was nineteen now, and nineteen-year-olds neither ran nor cried. He locked eyes with Denethor who, for a split second, looked surprised at his youngest son’s resilience before Faramir answered calmly, “Of course, Father,” and left the hall in a dignified manner.

“He only wishes to please you,” Boromir finally managed the strength to hiss before leaving to follow his brother.

The armory was empty and Boromir found him in his bedroom, staring out of the window.

“Faramir,” he whispered, coming to stand next to him. When he received no response, he turned his brother’s face to meet his and found that Denethor’s ring had scraped Faramir’s chin, just under his lip.

“It’s nothing new,” Faramir whispered. _It_ , of course, was everything, the whole unmalleable situation that had always been.

Boromir lost all of his words. As much as he could sympathize, he could never know the pain of being the least favorite child. What Faramir had to suffer was both unfair and unfixable and Boromir felt powerless. He’d given up trying to persuade an immovable father and had turned his attention to nurturing a wounded brother, but now he didn’t know how to set things right.

When Faramir had cried, holding him was just the obvious thing to do. It was a thousand times harder when Faramir didn’t cry, when he held it in. Boromir worried his brother would shatter beyond repair if he tried to break through just the surface in an attempt to console him.

Boromir wiped the blood from his brothers chin, just as he had wiped the tears away two years ago,

“Tell me what I can do,” He begged.

Faramir made the motions of a smile, but there was no happiness there. He didn’t reply and Boromir didn’t ask again because the silence was too loud for Faramir to have heard him.

\---

Two years later brought Faramir’s twenty-first year. He had grown up to a competent guardian of Gondor, as did his brother. However, time did not sway the old man’s opinions and Denethor only entrusted the truly important jobs to his eldest son. It mattered little for both brothers were happy simply to be defending the kingdom in whatever way they could, until Boromir was assigned a job away from home. It was a simple job but one that needed to be done and also one that would take three weeks.

Without getting his hopes too high, Faramir knew that this was his chance to prove himself, to guard the city in his brother’s stead. He also knew that he would miss Boromir, but he would later find out just how much. When sharp tongues lashed there was no one to run to.

Faramir was dismayed to learn that Denethor had possibly been holding back before, as the verbal abuse seemed to only increase. Still, Gondor was well attended to those three weeks, for Faramir preformed his duties well, even under the constant judgment of the Steward.

Faramir now found himself answering commands more frequently with “my lord” rather than “father.” Without his brother to ground him, Faramir was slipping and he tried his best not to let it show.

When Boromir did return, hair mussed from the road and armor lackluster with dust, he was the most beautiful sight Faramir had ever laid his eyes upon. His brother was home, the comfort he represented was back, and the pressure of upholding the city was once again shared.

As much as Faramir wanted to run to him, Denethor wanted to hear of his trip and stole him away immediately. It was late by the time Boromir was released from the Steward’s command and Faramir decided it would be polite his brother rest from his long trip, retiring to his own bedroom for the evening.

However, to his surprise, Boromir came to him later that night, hair still damp from the bath he had just taken.

“Hey,” the elder made himself known with the quiet noise as he knocked on the doorframe.

Faramir looked up from his book and smiled—a real smile, one Boromir had not seen on his face for a long while, “Hey, come in.”

Boromir complied and closed the door behind himself. He came to sit on the edge of Faramir’s bed, “So, how did you do without me?”

“Gondor was quite well protected.”

“No, I mean, how did _you_ do?”

And as quickly as it had come, the smile was gone. Boromir hated to see it go, but he had to know the answer.

When Faramir was quiet for too long, Boromir brought their foreheads together, an action that always seemed to pull him back just slightly from wherever he was drifting to.

“Faramir,” the elder breathed. It was a name, but it was also an invitation to be honest.

"It was..." Faramir swallowed hard, “difficult.” The word was barely said, a breathy outline of a voice, a confession wrapped in feigned stoicism. “I missed you,” were the fuller words that followed.

“I missed you, too.”

The brothers leaned apart and Faramir put his book away. Concern curtained Boromir’s face,

“Would you like me to talk to father?”

“No,” Faramir answered too quickly, “It won’t do any good, we both know that.”

“I want to help. Let me help.”

This was a conversation that they’d had before and still one they hadn’t had, not truly, not completely. It was an unresolved matter that came up every few years but never changed anything. Faramir knew this and stopped it in its tracks, changing the subject,

“You’ve got more important things to worry about than my melancholy.”

Boromir grabbed the matter by the reigns and steered it back on course. He took his brother’s shoulders in a firm grip and made their grey eyes meet. His brow creased down in absolute seriousness as he growled,

“Now, you listen to me: _Nothing_ is more important to me than you, Faramir.”

The words pierced through Faramir like a javelin. He had known of his brother’s regard for him but to be placed above all else? To be someone’s most important person? Emotion crashed over him like a wave, one with enough force to drown him had Boromir not been there hold him above the water and beg him to swim.

“Tell me how you want me to help you and I will do it.”

Flame flickered sporadically on candlewicks in the corners of the room, making the shadows on their faces warp and vibrate. Faramir could smell Boromir under the spice of bath soap and let the tension in his shoulders slacken. He always knew that whenever he smelled that scent it meant that things would be okay for a little while.

For the first time in five years he knew what he wanted from Boromir, but he couldn’t ask his brother to give him any more than he’d already given him tonight,

“You’ve already helped me,” His voice decrescendoed until the next words were barely even being mouthed, _so much._

Their arms and legs tangled while they slept that night and neither let go until morning.

Boromoir would always be their father’s favorite, but Faramir was _Boromir’s_ favorite and, for now, that was so much more than enough.

\---

**Author's Note:**

> Just an experiment. I like this couple, but I don't see it too often.


End file.
